Marek Hlasko - All Backs Were Turned

She walked over and he helped her get into the jeep.

“I heard one could rent a room privately,” she said. “That there are people here who take in lodgers. Would you know of anyone?”

“I can find out,” he said. “Then what?”

“I’d like to see all there’s to be seen in Eilat,” she said. “That’s why I came here. But I don’t have much time.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“Three days,” she said. “Then I have to go back.” She looked at the old couple walking slowly in the sun. “Can we give them a lift? That woman looks as if she’s going to drop any moment.”

“My mother died in this country,” he said, throwing the car into gear. “It says on her tombstone: Here lies Sarah, Mordechai’s daughter, a God-fearing old woman who has gone the way of all flesh.” He turned to the woman. “It would be best for this old hag if she also died. Right here, in this country, which she probably detests. There’d be less sorrow in the world then.”

“And what about me?” she asked.

“Well, what about you?”

“I’m over thirty,” she said. “Can I live a few more years?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on you.”

“Well, can you find out?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll tell you before you leave.”

“You have three days to gather the information,” she said. “And now stop the jeep. I want you to give this old couple a lift. I’ll pay you for it.”

He accelerated and drove past the old couple, covering them with sand. He continued to step on the gas until the arrow of the speedometer moved lazily from forty to fifty, and then he braked hard and jumped out of the jeep. They were midway between the airport and the main highway and nobody could see them. He circled the hood and stopped by the woman’s side.

“Listen,” he said, “I won’t give that old hag a lift. Not even for forty pounds. That’s why I asked her for twenty pounds; I didn’t want her to ride in this jeep. Anybody else I would have charged ten. And that’s how much I’ll charge you for three hours.”

“What have you got against her? She hasn’t done you any harm.”

“She reminds me of someone I want to forget,” he said.

“You should stop having affairs with girls well past their menopause. You’ll save yourself lots of trouble.”

“She reminds me of my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” she said and held out her hand, but he ignored it. He stood still and the red dust settled slowly over his sweaty face. After a while he took a moist cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it.

“Can we drive on?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “First we’ll find that room for me, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “Everything is fine now.” He got back behind the wheel and started off. In the rear-view mirror he could see the old couple shuffling slowly along in the direction of the highway; he knew that she also was watching them in the mirror. But he didn’t stop; he drove on quickly, raising clouds of red dust that soon obscured the old couple, outlandish and out of place in their black clothes, so much in discord with the mountains, the white sun, and the tranquil bay. He reached the main highway and turned right toward the town. He spat out the cigarette butt and looked at his passenger. For a moment he gazed in silence at her slim, weary face.

“I, too, will die here,” he said finally, lighting a new cigarette. “No doubt about it. It’s much too hot here for someone born in Europe. Just imagine, it’ll be like this, with no rain, for the next five months—” He glanced at her again. “I’ll stop by the place where I’m staying and ask about a room for you. They might know of something.”

“Okay,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be anything special. Just a clean room for three days.”

He stopped the jeep in front of Little Dov’s house and walked inside. Esther was asleep; Dov was sitting by the window reading a newspaper.

“Hey, Dov,” Israel whispered. “Come out to the kitchen.”

Dov left the room, closing the door behind him. “There’s this woman who’s looking for a place to stay,” Israel said. “Can you help? I’ve just picked her up at the airport. Maybe you know of someone who’d want to rent a room for three days?”

“We can try the neighbors,” Dov said. “If she doesn’t expect us to pay her rent, that is. I hope you’ve made it clear that you won’t be driving her around Eilat just for the fun of it.”

“I told her it’d be my pleasure to take her wherever she wants to go as long as she pays for it,” Israel said.

They crossed the yard and knocked on the door of a house that looked exactly the same as Little Dov’s. A fat woman opened the door.

“Do you want to rent a room?” Dov asked. “There’s a woman, a tourist, who’s looking for a room for three days.”

“Three days? Is it worth it?” the fat woman asked.

“I don’t know,” Israel said. “Say yes or no.”

“My, my, aren’t we impatient? Is she alone?”

“Yes.”

“How much does she want to pay?”

“Ten pounds a day,” Israel said. “That’s the going rate for rooms around here.”

“She’ll bring in men,” the fat woman said grudgingly.

“You haven’t even seen her, so how can you know?” Dov said. “And even if she does, what do you care? The important thing is she won’t bring in women. At least men don’t get pregnant. Well?”

“Okay, but she has to pay me in advance,” the fat woman said.

“I think she’ll agree to that,” Israel said. “I’ll go and ask her. And if she wants to see the room, I’ll bring her over.”

“One moment,” the fat woman said, looking at them as if she suddenly woke up from a dream. “Who are you, the two of you?”

“I’m Dov Ben Dov,” Dov said. “And this is my friend Israel. Satisfied?”

“You’re Dov Ben Dov?” she asked. “I already know two men by that name.”

“I’m the third one,” Dov said. “The worst one. The one you heard all the stories about. We’ll be back in a minute.”

They went to the jeep.

“This is my friend, Dov Ben Dov,” Israel said. “He helped me find you a room.”

“Ben Dov,” the woman said. “In Hebrew this means the son of — I’ve forgotten. God, I knew that word, but now it’s slipped my mind.”

“Bear, son of Bear,” Dov said. “A very nice name, considering that no one has ever seen a bear in this country.”

“Yes,” she said, holding out her hand. “And my name is Ursula. People address each other by their first names here, no?”

“It’s more convenient that way,” Dov said. “I know a guy who’s named Moses Treppengelander. And another one who’s named Samuel Paradiserweg. Who’d want to say all that?”

“You were born here,” she said, fixing her eyes on him.

“Yes, in Haifa,” he said. “How did you know I was born in Israel?”

“I just knew it,” she said, staring at his heavy shoulders. “And you do look like a bear.”

He took a step in her direction. His face remained expressionless, only the spot where his eyebrows joined seemed to thicken suddenly.

“Has anybody ever told you what you look like? What kind of woman?” he asked. Then he turned and walked away.

“It’s best to leave him alone,” Israel said. “He can be very unpleasant.”

“Did I offend him in some way?” she asked.

“No,” Israel said. “Nobody needs to offend him. That’s the trouble. It’s enough that he imagines the whole world is trying to offend him. There are people like that, you know.” He took her suitcase from the back seat. “Let’s go and see that room. It’ll cost you half of what a hotel room would.”